


Why Don't We Go There

by hibiscus_tea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Compliant, Communication, Galra Keith (Voltron), Keitor Exchange 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 22:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14680581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibiscus_tea/pseuds/hibiscus_tea
Summary: “It’s not quintessence poisoning,” Keith explains quietly, and Lotor breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s some kind of… second puberty. A Garla thing.”•Keith and Lotor come to an agreement.





	Why Don't We Go There

**Author's Note:**

> for [allie-draws-nsfw](http://allie-draws-nsfw.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! 
> 
>  

Lotor is cornered by Keith in the hallway after a strategy meeting. The Blade uniform wears like protective armour, and Keith is all tense shoulders under strong fabric, cheeks darkening slightly  as he relays the physician’s diagnosis. 

 

“It’s not quintessence poisoning,” Keith explains quietly, and Lotor breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s some kind of… second puberty. A Garla thing.”

 

The word appears distasteful, with a slight twist to his mouth. 

 

“This is excellent news,” Lotor enthuses. This particular worry has been making a home in the tight muscles of his neck for the last few quintents, and perhaps now it will relax. 

 

Keith’s face, however, retains it’s sour disposition. 

 

“The doctor said I’m going into heat. That I’m an omega.” 

 

Keith wields the new words well, but the implications are clumsy. In his handsome Blade armour and the new lilac hue to his skin, he cuts a strong figure. 

 

An  _ omega _ . 

 

Lotor quickly checks that the hallway is empty, no one lingering around the corners. 

 

“Please follow me,” he says. 

 

Keith keeps pace with him remarkably well, considering the difference in their stride lengths. This base is smaller than Zarkon’s had been, but it’s interior is convoluted enough that it is easy to become lost. They stay close. 

 

“After you,” Lotor says, once they reach his quarters, “I thought it would be best to have this discussion in private.”

 

“What discussion?” Keith asks, although he enters tentatively, scanning the dim room.  

 

Lotor gestures the door shut behind them, and the lights up. 

 

His desk is a slight mess, the bed left unmade in favour of the spreadsheets still displayed on the orange glow of the screen. His closet door is left open, although recently there is hardly call for a change in outfit quintent to quintent. 

 

“Please,” Lotor says, arranging his desk chair to face out, “sit.” 

 

Keith settles quietly as Lotor brings over the armchair from the other side of the room and settles it a respectful distance across from him. 

 

“Would you like…?”

 

“I’m fine,” Keith tells him, gloved hands resting on his thighs. “What discussion?”

 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Lotor explains, “but I’m afraid gossip travels quite quickly on this ship. I thought you might appreciate some discretion.”

 

“Uh, thanks,” Keith says. His feet don’t touch the floor, disproportionately sized for his Galra-made surroundings. 

 

“Of course,” Lotor nods. Sheathed fingertips tap at the upholstery of the armrests. Unsure how to approach this, he clears his throat. “Was there a time frame for this heat?”

 

“No, not really,” Keith says. “Apparently it’s difficult to tell with my physiology, but soon. Within this movement.” His arms are crossed over his chest. “Hopefully as soon as possible. I need to get back to my training with the Blade.”

 

“That is understandable,” Lotor nods, “although we will miss your presence here. Did my physician go over your options?”

 

For a moment the colour lifts high on Keith’s cheeks. His mouth opens, tiny twin fangs just visible, new and sharp white. 

 

“N-no, not really,” Keith voices after a moment.

 

Lotor takes a thoughtful breath, turns his phrasing over against the back of his tongue. 

 

“Your heat would be best sated by an alpha,” he explains, watching Keith’s face carefully, “and most quickly.” 

 

“Right,” Keith says, “so I just… find an alpha.” There’s a resignation in the set of his shoulders, overwhelmed with the persistent flush of his cheeks. 

 

“It would not be difficult,” Lotor tells him, “sharing a first heat is considered an honour. You would have your pick.”

 

The reassurance does not have the desired effect. Dark hair obscures Keith’s face as he lets his head fall into his gloved hands. His fingers scrub through the roots, and when he brings his face up, deep violet eyes are suspiciously wet. 

 

A thick, steadying breath. 

 

“What are the other options?” 

 

Lotor clears his throat. 

 

“If you don’t want to choose an alpha, having a partner during a heat will help speed up the process regardless of secondary gender. Otherwise, there are heat-aids. Whatever you are comfortable with.”

 

Keith sits back in Lotor’s desk chair with a sigh, head tilting back, the bob of his throat just visible under the high collar of his uniform. A gesture of trust, although it is clear that Keith is unaware of Garla instincts and customs. 

 

“The physician,” Keith says quietly, gathers his words around him carefully, “she made it sound like I would only want an alpha.”

 

Lotor regards him. The new shades of his face, the set of his jaw, the tiredness of his body, no doubt under stress from the changes. 

 

“Biologically… traditionally, yes,” Lotor says carefully, “it is not as simple as that, but it is true that alphas will be very attractive to you, especially during this time in your cycle.” He shrugs, mouth curling. “In practice, attraction often is more complicated than biology would allow.”

 

A soft pause, during which Keith’s gaze travels absently around Lotor’s room. Slightly embarrassed for the mess, Lotor taps his fingers in rhythm on the armrests. Fidgeting is a terrible habit, but there is something about Keith’s frustration that echoes in his own restless joints. 

 

“Okay,” Keith sighs finally, “I have to think about this.” He gets to his feet, lightly and without permission. The informality tugs at Lotor’s chest. “Thanks, Lotor.”

 

“Of course.” Lotor rises as well, busies himself with putting the chairs back to rights. He looks up to find Keith paused in the open doorway, an internal debate voiced with the furrow of his brow. 

 

Keith’s rumpled hood soothes the sharp lines of his shoulders as he stands silhouetted, hesitant. 

 

“I-” he swallows, looking small and unsure in the doorway, and Lotor stands to attention. “Would you-?” He cuts himself off. 

 

“Keith,” Lotor encourages him, hands resting on the high back of the armchair as he settles it into place, “please be free with your questions.”

 

His body language suggests flight, but there’s a breath, and he turns to face Lotor completely. 

 

“You said that an alpha would consider it an honour,” Keith manages. And then soft, with the raw quality of voice that catches at a heartbeat. “Would you?”

 

Lotor stares. His fingers dig into the thick upholstery. 

 

His voice is tangled in threads around his esophagus, and it emerges stark with surprise. “I am not an alpha.”

 

Keith’s eyes widen, then his expression is shaded by the flop of his hair as he ducks his head. 

 

“O-oh,” he says. When he looks up there’s a softness in his expression. A type of longing that Lotor is intimately familiar with. “You’re like me?”

 

“Yes,” says Lotor, and he finds himself moving across the room, gathering up one of Keith’s gloved hands between his, “yes.” 

 

Keith’s small, strong hand almost disappears in Lotor’s hold, just the fingertips exposed. Lotor brushes his lips across them in a gesture of respect, raises his gaze to meet widened eyes. 

 

He speaks low, unthreatening. For all Keith’s fire there is a waver at the core of him, vulnerability maddening and sweet. 

 

“It would be an honour, all the same,” Lotor tells him, watches the relief crack into a small smile. 

 

He will clear his schedule for that smile, reorganise his duties, compromise his heart. 

 

“Thank you,” Keith tells him, “that means a lot.” 

 

Lotor relinquishes his hand, answers with a smile of his own. 

 

“Of course. I am glad to hear it.” 

 

A bare moment before Keith turns to leave, before the hood comes up and the mask filters over his face. 

 

Trust. A raw, tangible weight at Lotor’s chest. 

 

He clings to it quietly, there in the doorway. He will not let it go.

**Author's Note:**

> these two are so much fun to write I can't wait to come back to them 
> 
> anyway - I know this a tiny fic, but I'd really love to hear what you think if you have the time
> 
> please come distract me from uni [here](https://vers-shiro.tumblr.com/)


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